


Hey Man! Leave Me Alone!

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Karaoke!, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:31:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oxfordshire Police organise a karaoke sing-off . . . let's just say Hathaway never ceases to amaze Lewis . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted a change from the angst and intensity I've been writing recently, so this is just a bit of karaoke-based fun.
> 
> Thanks to the lovely [Lindenharp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp) for great beta-ing. 
> 
> For those of you who don't know the song that features in this fic, [here's](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEkXAHIKdKI) a link to the original version.

Lewis has been to the weekly DI’s briefing meeting, which for once wasn’t too painful, and is strolling back down the corridor to his office. At the far end of the corridor, right by the doorway to the interview rooms, he can see the lanky outline of his sergeant, who’s standing in front of a noticeboard with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. Even from this distance, Lewis can tell that Hathaway is bothered about something he’s looking at on the board.

As Lewis pulls up next to him, Hathaway starts speaking without turning away from the board—he apparently can tell that it’s his governor standing by his side just by the sound of his breathing or perhaps the scent of his aftershave. They’re like this with each other so often that Lewis doesn’t even notice his sergeant’s apparent psychic abilities any more.

“Remember sir when I took a dip in that pond of crap and blades and claimed that I’d visited the gate of Hell, and had experienced the limitless suffering to be found therein?”

Lewis smirks. “I’m not likely to forget, am I? God, that smell! Hung around for days, didn’t it?!”

Hathaway sighs a sigh of the long suffering. “Yes, quite. Well, evidently I was mistaken, because this”—he jabs a finger at a large sheet of paper pinned to the board—“this is the true form that hell-on-earth takes.”

Lewis leans forward to get a clear look at the poster:

***********************************************************

1ST ANNUAL INTER-SERVICE KARAOKE COMPETITION

Calling all budding Beyoncés and Barry Manilows!  
Oxfordshire Police needs you!

OXFORDSHIRE POLICE VS OXFORDSHIRE FIRE SERVICE  
FRIENDLY SING-OFF

Friday 21st November  
Function Room, The Railway Arms, Wheatley.

Professional judges! Cash prizes!

Email PC Talicia Grant for details of transport to venue, food options etc.

***********************************************************

At the bottom of the poster, in the unmistakable, impatient handwriting of Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent are the words “I expect this event to have the full support of all off-duty staff”, followed by her signature.

“An email came round to the same effect while you were in your meeting sir. I thought it was someone’s idea of a joke. Clearly not.”

Lewis raises an eyebrow. “Well, apparently the fun will be compulsory a week on Friday James.”

James frowns. “Surely we can’t be forced to attend this”—he searches for the right word—“torture, in our own time?!”

Lewis glances at him, amused. “No, probably not. As long as you’re happy explaining to Jean Innocent exactly why you don’t want to support your fellow officers—that’s how she’ll see it. Anyhow, it’ll be a bit of fun for the youngsters.”

Hathaway groans melodramatically. 

“Don’t think you’ll actually have to sing Sergeant, if that’s what you’re worried about—unless of course you fancy yourself as the next Justin Beiber.”

Hathaway can’t help smirking. “I never thought I’d hear you say the words Justin Beiber! Big fan, are you sir?”

Lewis shoots him a look. “Enough of your cheek Sergeant, or I’ll email Innocent and tell her you’ve been practicing your Rhianna song and dance routine specially. Anyway, I don’t see the problem—you like music.”

Hathaway shakes his head in disbelief. “Well that is rather the problem isn’t it sir—I like music.”


	2. Chapter 2

The function room is a large, bare hall at the back of the pub. By 8.30 it’s packed full of off-duty police and fire officers, along with numerous support and managerial staff. Two DJs from the local radio station (the “professional judges”) sit behind a table to one side of the stage. The woman doing a valiant job organising the singers, the music, and announcing each new act, is standing next to them. Lewis and Hathaway are at the back of the hall, each nursing a pint of bitter.

The karaoke’s been underway for almost an hour, and things aren’t looking good for Oxfordshire Police. Not to put too fine a point on it, it seems that the majority of the police staff couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket if their life depended on it. This however hasn’t deterred several of them from bravely mounting the stage—and murdering a selection of classic and contemporary hits. In contrast, the Fire Service seems to have come with the intention of winning. For one thing, they’re cunningly fielding singers who actually appear to know the songs they’re singing. For another, given the quality of their performances so far, it seems likely that some pretty intensive practice sessions have been taking place in between call-outs to fires and cats stuck up trees.

Even Lewis, who’s less inclined to judge these kinds of things than Hathaway, has had to admit that the Police Service’s attempts so far have been “bloody rough.” The main difference between Lewis and his sergeant though is that Lewis is managing to enjoy himself despite the quality of the vocals, whereas Hathaway looks like he’s in physical pain and has been getting increasingly agitated as time has gone on.

“James man, relax. It’s just a bit of fun. And this lot”—he waves his beer glass in the direction of the stage, where three fire service administrative staff are making a pretty good job of the harmonies on an old Eagles hit—aren’t half bad.”

“Yes, but that’s just it. Not only are _we_ rubbish, but the Fire Service, as you say, for the most part are far from bad. We’re being handed our arses in a fire-proof box.”

As they talk, the Fire Service trio finish—to loud applause—and a group of seven or eight male police officers—DC Hooper amongst them—shuffle onto the stage, pushing and shoving each other a bit, clearly having already had a few beers. A brief instrumental intro blares out, then the strangled strains of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” fill the room. Half the people on stage appear to be singing in different keys; the sounds that the others are emitting can’t really be described as singing at all. Robbie shakes his head with a grin—the police really haven’t got a snowball in hell’s chance of winning this. Suddenly there’s a commotion next to him.

“I’m sorry, but no. They’re just taking the piss now!” James swallows a mouthful of beer then slams his half-empty pint glass down on the table next to them. He shrugs his suit jacket off and shoves it into Lewis’ hands, who takes it with a questioning look on his face. 

“Right. I’ll be back in a short while, sir.” Without waiting for a response, he strides down the hall, pushing through the crowd towards the stage. Lewis watches in amazement as Hathaway starts an animated conversation with the MC.

The police team finish their song to embarrassed applause, and the fire service follow it with a duo belting out a pretty cool version of “River Deep, Mountain High.” It’s certainly good enough to hold most people’s attention, and even gets a few people dancing in front of the stage. They finish to a great cheer from the right-hand side of the room, where the majority of fire staff are standing. There’s a collective wince on the left side of the hall as the police anticipate just how bad their next act might be. The MC makes her announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, representing Oxfordshire Police, please welcome onto the stage: Sergeant James Hathaway!”

There are a few surprised cheers as Hathaway walks out onto the stage—accompanied by the sound of dozens of police staff nudging and whispering to each other. For most of them, DS James Hathaway—DI Lewis’ over-educated, rather aloof sidekick—is the last person they would have expected to be watching stroll onto the stage. Lewis himself stands with his mouth open, gawping at the sight of his awkward, introverted sergeant taking his place, looking for all the world like he’s actually going to sing. 

Hathaway has loosened his tie and undone the top couple of buttons on his shirt. He’s got his hands in his pockets. He stands to the left of the microphone as the chugging guitar intro to Bowie’s “Suffragette City” pounds out of the speakers so loud that the audience can feel the bass line in their guts. He doesn’t look nervous, he doesn’t fidget—he just stands there, looking inscrutably out over the crowded room. At the last possible moment his right hand shoots out of his pocket, grabs the mike stand by the scruff of the neck, and yanks it across. In order to get his mouth level with the mike he has to hunch his angular body over it. It looks awkward and odd—but it’s impossible not to pay attention to, judging by the hush that descends over the crowd. He snarls the opening line, staring at the dusty floor of the stage, as he’s curled over the mike: 

“Hey man! Leave me alone!” 

His voice is cigarette rough and nasal and pissed off—perfect for the song, in fact.

“Hey man!” He sneers his way through the rest of the first verse, not even wasting a glance on the rapidly swelling mass of bodies gathering in front of the stage, bouncing in time to the music:

“Hey man, my school day's insane  
Hey man, my work's down the drain.”

Finally, as he thunders into the chorus, he looks at the crowd with apparent disdain. He jabs a finger in their direction:

“Ah don't lean on me man, ‘cos you can't afford the ticket  
I’m back from Suffragette City.”

God Almighty. He _is_ Bowie. He _is_ Jagger. He is every skinny, ambiguous, sexy boy who’s ever stood on a stage and made all the girls—and a fair few of the boys—want to take him home and fuck him. And Lord, do they want to take him home and fuck him. They’re going absolutely wild—surging to the front of the hall and roaring at him. He’s only two verses in and it’s like bloody Beatle-mania.

The song reaches the instrumental break. All night, singers—even the experienced ones—have been shuffling about awkwardly during the instrumental sections of songs, not sure whether to dance or stand still, and usually ending up doing a self-conscious little half-dance while praying for the next verse to start. Not Hathaway. He glares at the audience as the guitar chords pound into them, his only concession to moving being the slightest twitch of his right hip as he stands there. It’s so subtle that unless you were really paying close attention, you’d miss it completely. It turns out that the majority of the audience must be paying very close attention to his pelvic area, because the twitch provokes a loud, collective groan. He rolls his eyes; the look on his face all judgment and superiority. But then he does it again—twitches his skinny little hips—and the audience realise that he’s fucking with them—and they roar their approval.

Perhaps almost despite himself, he looks as energised by them as they are by him. He lunges into the repeated “Suffragette City” lyric of the last minute of the song and the whole audience—police and fire service alike—pitches the answering “ooh aah!” back at him again and again, caught in an intense, almost aggressive exchange with him. It’s as close as singing gets to fighting—or fucking—and it’s electrifying. As he winds himself up into the “arrhhhhh, wham bam thank you ma’am!” he flings himself into the air and from that point on, the music—which had seemed deafening as it started—is virtually drowned out by the screams of the audience. He spits out the final “suffragette”, lets go of the microphone, and surveys the mayhem in front of him, his cheeks flushed and his breathing visibly laboured. And mayhem there is. People are clapping and cheering and stamping. There are shouted demands for another song and offers of sexual favours. Two women at the front who are pressed right up against the stage keep yelling, “We love you, blondie!” Hathaway’s eyes widen and he looks like he’s struggling to take it all in. 

At the back of the hall Lewis has two fingers in his mouth and is wolf-whistling as loudly as he can. He is amazed, proud, delighted; once again his enigmatic sergeant has completely astonished him. Although he teases Hathaway sometimes about being clever and accomplished, the truth is that he takes pleasure in his sergeant’s talents. Of course what that usually entails is watching Hathaway translate a line of ancient Greek or get a reference to an obscure poet—not whipping a crowd up into a deafening, joyous frenzy! 

As he watches Hathaway head towards the steps down from the stage, Lewis can see that he’s starting to look a bit bewildered, so he whistles again and manages to catch Hathaway’s eye. Lewis raises his hands above his head, clapping and cheering, wanting to be heard over the din the audience is still making. The instant he sees Lewis, Hathaway’s expression is transformed into the widest smile, all cool disdain forgotten. They stand and grin at each other, silently acknowledging the madness of the situation, until Hathaway—for a moment looking almost shy—gives him a little salute, and then starts to make his way down the steps. The crowd envelop him as he gets to the bottom—just his face and pale hair visible above them. His progress through the hall towards Lewis is slow; everyone wants a word or a hug or a kiss. But every minute or two Hathaway looks up as if to check that his governor is still there. Each time, Lewis gives him a smile and a nod of encouragement, and Hathaway ducks his head back down to chat again. 

Lewis sips his pint and half-listens to the animated conversations going on around him. He’s in no hurry—he'll happily wait as long as it takes, content in the knowledge that Hathaway is slowly but certainly making his way to him.


	3. A Sight Worth Seeing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't resist! James takes to the stage again . . .

Ten minutes later Hathaway finally makes it back to Lewis. He’s flushed and has patches of sweat plastering his shirt to his chest and back, and his hair is a mess. It’s not surprising he looks so dishevelled, given how hard he threw himself into the performance, but still, Lewis is so used to seeing his sergeant in a pristine state that it’s hard not to stare. 

Hathaway is standing in front of him, visibly bristling with adrenalin-fuelled energy. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself though, and keeps shifting his weight from one foot to the other and fiddling with his beer glass. He also hasn’t managed to look Lewis in the eye yet. If Lewis had to guess he’d say that Hathaway doesn’t know whether to be mortified or proud of what he’s just done. Already the swagger and disdainful confidence he’d radiated on stage is fading, and his more familiar awkward persona is reasserting itself. _Yes, well, not if Lewis has anything to do with it._

Lewis leans in close so he can be heard over the din of another disastrous Police Service act. He opens his mouth, not sure exactly what he’s going to say, but then he gets derailed: this close he can _smell_ Hathaway—a faint, end-of-the-day hint of his aftershave, mingling with warm skin and sweat. For a moment he loses focus and only just manages to catch himself as he starts to lean in even closer to _sniff_ his sergeant. _Christ!_ He coughs to cover his confusion. When he feels he can trust himself to behave appropriately, he tries again:

“Bloody hell, James! You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel, haven’t you!?” 

Hathaway looks at him, a hint of amusement joining the uncertainty in his expression. “Not like you to quote the New Testament to me, sir. Bonus points if you can tell me what a bushel is.”

 _Nice try, James._ “Less of your cheek, Sergeant. And don’t think you can change the subject like that. We were talking about you doing a very passable impersonation of a rock god up there.” He gestures towards the stage with his glass. “You’re gonna tell me you did a bit of singing at Cambridge, aren’t you? Like you did a bit of rowing?”

It’s hard to tell if the colour in Hathaway’s cheeks is left over from his performance, or down to embarrassment at his governor calling him a rock god. He shrugs.

“No singing at university, really, sir. Well, I might have done a bit at home in private over the years, but nowhere else, I assure you.”

_Is he kidding? Surely that can’t be right?_

“What? You’re honestly saying you’ve never done that in public before?” Lewis is astonished. “You’ve not been frequenting the karaoke bars of Oxford behind me back, then?”

Hathaway smirks. “I promise, if I ever develop a late-night karaoke habit, I’ll drag you along with me.”

Lewis can’t imagine why the thought of being dragged round Oxford’s noisiest student bars by his enigmatic sergeant should be so appealing, but as soon as Hathaway says it, his heart kicks and it’s all he wants, though he knows Hathaway was joking. He just—he just wants to see him like this again—sweaty and a bit of a mess and vibrating with energy; a want he’s having trouble even acknowledging to himself, let alone making sense of.

He clears his throat and attempts to take control of the situation. “So, you practice in front of a mirror with a hair brush for the microphone, do ya?” But he doesn’t get an answer because at that moment Julie bounds up to them, grinning widely.

“Sarge! You were brilliant! Really brilliant. Are you going to do another song?”

In all that’s been going on, it hadn’t even occurred to him that Hathaway might perform again. He turns to Julie, doing his best impersonation of steady-as-a-rock DI Lewis.

“Is that allowed? Can we play our ace twice?”

“Oh, I’m not sure, sir.” They both instinctively turn to Hathaway, who can usually be relied on to know the rules, even if he doesn’t always play by them. 

“I gather a maximum of two performances per contestant is allowed—but I think I’ve done my bit.” He glances at Lewis, then looks down, studying the empty glass in his hand. “I wouldn’t want to outstay my welcome.” 

“I don’t think that would be possible, James.” He means it to come out a bit sarky, a bit of a piss-take, but that’s not really how it felt, and clearly—judging by Hathaway’s startled expression—that’s not how it sounded. 

Julie saves him. “Great! If you’re going to do another song like that though, Sarge, I want to put some mascara and eyeliner on you, so you look the part,” and she starts rummaging in her handbag.

Well, bless her for that. Hathaway in make-up? That’ll be the day! Lewis looks at his sergeant and starts to mockingly repeat, 

“She wants to put some mascara . . .”, but the words die in his mouth at the sight of Hathaway bending his long neck down to allow Julie to reach his face with ease. _Christ. He’s going to let her._

Hathaway closes his eyes and Lewis can only gawp as Julie takes hold of his face with one hand and confidently draws dark lines round his eyes, close to his eyelashes. Hathaway looks vulnerable with his eyes closed, despite how much bigger he is than Julie, and the whole thing feels hushed and intimate to the point where Lewis thinks maybe he ought to look away—which is daft because they’re in a hall full of people, any of whom could watch if they were so inclined. And in any case, he doesn't want to look away—he’s mesmerised by the sight of Julie’s hands on Hathaway, and has a strange giddy moment wondering what it would look like, what it would feel like, if it were his hand cradling his sergeant’s head. 

Julie finishes outlining Hathaway’s eyes and steps back to look at her handiwork. “Keep your eyes closed, Sarge. Bit more to do yet.” Then to Lewis’ surprise, she uses the very tip of her little finger to smudge the lines she’s just drawn so carefully. She smiles and nods to herself, evidently pleased with what this has achieved. She starts to apply black mascara and Lewis sees Hathaway’s eyelashes—which are usually so pale as to be almost invisible—miraculously appear, impossibly long.

And then Hathaway opens his eyes with a flutter and looks over Julie’s shoulder, directly at Lewis. _God._ He should by rights look ridiculous—like a pantomime dame or something—but actually he looks—well—what Lewis’ mind supplies is debauched—and _that’s_ not a word he has use for very often. Hathaway definitely still looks like a man; he still looks like Hathaway—but a dishevelled, debauched, very sexy Hathaway. It’s extremely unsettling and Lewis doesn’t quite know where to look. When he finally manages to meet Hathaway’s gaze, he knows it must be obvious that something’s going on with him, but there’s nothing he can do about it. They stare at each other for a few seconds and Hathaway raises one eloquently questioning eyebrow. Lewis doesn’t know exactly what the question is that’s being asked, but his body responds with a kick of adrenalin and heat, regardless. 

Whatever’s going on between them is interrupted by Julie. “What do you think, sir?” She turns to Lewis to get his opinion. “He looks really cool, doesn’t he?” She seems oblivious to the unspoken drama playing out over her shoulder, despite the fact that him and Hathaway are generating enough heat to make a serious contribution to global warming. Or perhaps she _is_ aware of something awkward—she’s not daft—and she’s trying to help. In any case, all Lewis can do is feel grateful to her again, and agree. “Yes, cool. Very cool.” 

It’s Hathaway’s turn to look away, but Lewis can see the ghost of a mocking smile on his sergeant’s face, at his use of the word cool—another word that rarely enters the Lewis vocabulary. Finally he gets a grip. “Well go on then. No point getting all dolled up and then not making the most of it. Get back up there and save our reputation.”

Hathaway looks at him, his expression unreadable. “Your wish is my command, sir—as ever.” And with that he inclines his head a couple of inches, which reminds Lewis of the little bow his sergeant gave that nice gardener, Liv Nash, that time. Before Lewis can come up with a suitable response (whatever that might be), Hathaway turns on his heels and strides back through the crowd towards the front of the hall.

“I’m off down the front for a bop, sir. You coming?” Julie grins encouragingly at him. He smiles but shakes his head; Robbie Lewis and dancing in public do not mix. Well, not these days, any road. 

“I think not, Constable, but thanks for asking. I’ll stay here and mind David Bowie’s jacket for him.” He nods to the suit jacket he just realised he’s been holding onto for the last half an hour. “Off you go.”

He watches Julie deftly weave her way through the crowd to the front and then he turns his attention back to Hathaway, who’s slouching against a wall near the stage, waiting his turn. He’s managing to look both elegant and awkward, and Lewis can only smile at the utter Jamesness of that.

When the MC introduces Hathaway, the audience roars and Lewis feels his breath catch. As Hathaway strides out onto the stage, the opening chords of Blondie’s “Picture This” blast through the hall and the crowd goes wild. There’s an almighty surge to the front and for a moment Lewis forgets all about Hathaway, his mind hijacked by images of people being crushed and trampled. He scans the front of the hall for Julie. It’s difficult to tell who’s who at this distance, particularly as he can only see the backs of people’s heads—but eventually he spots her, dancing and waving her arms in the air and clearly having a good time. It looks like the bloke next to her has a protective arm round her, shielding her from being bumped by the people near her. Lewis relaxes a little as he sees that someone’s with her, looking out for her. He tries to make out who her bodyguard is—as far as he knows she doesn’t have a boyfriend at the moment. Then the guy turns to say something to her and Robbie recognises Gurdip. Well now, _that’s_ interesting. They’ve always seemed to get on well, but he’s pretty certain there’s never been anything more between them. Maybe that’s all about to change? 

He’s yanked from his musings by the first lines of the song, which are pouring out of Hathaway, spiked with a kind of angry longing.

“All I want is a room with a view,  
A sight worth seeing, a vision of you,  
All I want, is a room with a view.”

 _He’s_ a vision; his hair pale gold under the stage lights, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Despite how slim he is, there’s a real sense of power and even menace as he looks down on the masses from the height of the stage—like some dangerous fallen angel. He throws his head back and opens his mouth to sing the “Oh oh ohhh, wo-oh, wo-oh, woh!” at the end of the verse, and the crowd sing raucously along with him—but all Lewis can do is stare.

The dancers at the front are desperate for Hathaway’s attention—calling and trying to reach him with their hands, but as he starts the second verse, he looks towards the back of the hall and locks eyes with Lewis across the seething mass of people between them. Suddenly it’s as if there’s no one in the hall except the two of them.

“I will give you my finest hour,  
The one I spent watching you shower,  
I will give you, my finest hour.”

 _Christ. Hathaway’s messing with him. Surely he’s taking the piss?_ He feels irritation and embarrassment rising in his chest and throat—but he can’t look away. Hathaway ploughs on, his eyes fixed on Lewis. 

“All I want is a photo in my wallet  
A small remembrance of something more solid  
All I want, is a picture of you.”

And then he releases Lewis from his gaze and turns his attention back to the crowd, glaring and snarling at them—and receives a deafening roar of approval for his troubles. Lewis can’t blame them. 

Hathaway throws himself into the second half of the song, dragging the mike stand with him as moves to the front of the stage, just out of reach of the audience. His long legs are wide apart, and the muscles in his thighs—clearly outlined through his suit trousers—work hard to keep him from toppling into the audience as he bends low over them. He ignores Lewis completely, until right near the end of the song, when he glances back at him again and proclaims:

“If you could only, oh oh oh, picture this,  
A sky full of thunder,  
Picture this, my telephone number,” before dragging his attention back to the crowd in front of him, once more.

And that’s it; a few seconds insistent drumming, a final “yeah”, and it’s all over—except for the ear-splitting cheers and screams filling the hall. 

Lewis watches his sergeant walk with purpose through the crowd, feeling a great deal more agitated this time round. He wishes the man would just hurry up! He wishes that people would stop waylaying him, would stop hugging and kissing him. He wishes that Hathaway would take forever to reach him, would get distracted, would do something—anything—to put this off—whatever this is.

He can taste the acid of the cheap beer in the back of his throat. He fiddles with the keys and small change in his trouser pocket, all the while clutching onto Hathaway’s jacket with his other—clammy—hand.

But finally Hathaway is in front of him; sweaty, fidgety, and still breathing heavily from his recent exertions. Lewis does his best: 

“God, man! You’re a sure bet for a prize. D’ya want another drink while we’re waiting—I was just thinking about going to the bar?” And to convince himself as much as anyone else that he means it, he takes a step in that direction.

“I’d rather just go, sir.” James shoots him a determined look then looks towards the exit.

“Go? Don’t be daft! First prize is a hundred quid!” 

Hathaway shrugs dismissively. “Really—I’d rather go. Now.” And without further debate he grabs his jacket off Lewis, slings it on, and then places a hand on Lewis’ arm and starts to steer him towards the door. 

Lewis lets himself be steered.


	4. A Sky Full Of Thunder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather more explicit than the previous three. Just in case that's not your kind of thing.

They get out of the pub into the chilly, dark night. Hathaway leads them into a corner in the shadow of a wall, and just for a moment Lewis thinks Hathaway’s led them there so he can have a smoke. Well, he doesn’t really think that, it’s just that anything else, any other possible reason for them to be hiding in the shadows like this, is unthinkable. But his body—which doesn’t have to rely on thinking to understand—knows well enough that something’s going to happen. 

Hathaway leans a shoulder against the wall and turns towards Lewis. 

“So. What does it look like?”

Robbie’s not sure what he’s talking about. “What does what look like?”

“The make-up. What does it look like? Do I look stupid, like some kind of cut-price goth?” There’s a hint of a self-mocking smile.

Lewis chuckles, amused by his sergeant even in this disconcerting situation. “No. No, nothing like that.”

“What then?”

 _What the hell is he meant to say?_ “You look . . . it looks. It suits you.”

“Is that so, sir?” Hathaway looks amused. “Makes me look cool, does it?”

Lewis sighs with exasperation. “Yeah, if you like. Cool.”

Hathaway takes a step towards him. 

“One of the women from the Fire Service told me I look like sex on legs.” 

“Did she?” He tries to sound casual. He fails.

Hathaway himself _sounds_ nonchalant enough, but there’s sufficient colour in his cheeks—visible even in their dark, shadowy corner—to suggest that he too might be feeling a little less than _cool_ right now. As ever with him though, it’s hard to tell exactly what’s going on. Hathaway continues—his voice deep and intimate. “I was hoping for something a little more sophisticated. Decadent, debauched, that kind of . . .”

Lewis’ head shoots up before he can stop it and his reaction must be written all over his face. Hathaway’s expression slides into a knowing, lazy smile. 

“Debauched, _sir_?” He leans on the _sir_ , managing to make it sound filthy. “Debauched is _so_ much better than cool, don’t you think?”

Lewis doesn’t answer; doesn’t know how to answer this disturbingly sexy version of his sergeant. So he says nothing but at least manages to make himself look directly at the other man. For two, three seconds Hathaway holds his gaze—electricity crackling between them. Then something shifts, something in Hathaway’s eyes changes and he sighs and glances away. His shoulders sag.

“I compensate for my debauchery by being brilliant at it.”

Lewis has no idea what he’s on about. “Is that so?”

Hathaway shakes his head, looking defeated. “No, not really. It’s just a quote. Bauvard.” He pauses and frowns. “To be honest, sir, I’ve not really had much experience of debauchery.”

At Hathaway’s admission, Lewis feels some of the tension in his gut dissipate. Hathaway may look the part; Christ, if Lewis is honest with himself, for the first time in his life he really understands how a man could fancy another man. But it’s still James—his awkward sod, his loyal friend—standing in front of him.

“I see. Not a lot of debauchery in Cambridge then?”

“I’m sure there was, but not involving me. Alas.” 

Hathaway gazes off into the night then scuffs the ground with his shoe, and Lewis has a moment to appreciate the strangeness of the situation. He’s feeling sorry that his sergeant didn’t what—shag and drink and vomit his way round Cambridge when he was a student? He opens his mouth and speaks before he can change his mind. He feels strangely reluctant for Hathaway to go off and have a good time without him, but that’s just odd—and selfish.

“Seems a shame to be all dolled up and not . . . make the most of it.” He tries to sound encouraging. He has a vague plan of dropping Hathaway off at a bar or a club in the city centre. He doubts his sergeant is great shakes at chatting up women—people—Lewis corrects himself, but let’s face it, looking like that, he’s not going to need much skill. In fact thinking about it, there are plenty of people here tonight who’ve made it very clear what they’d like to get up to with the bloke. Maybe he should just go home and leave him to make some new friends?

But Hathaway is staring at him, looking very confused. _Bloody hell_. Apparently he’s going to have to spell it out to him—which will be nothing but embarrassing for both of them. For a genius, Hathaway can be bloody slow on the uptake about some things. This is like that time with Fiona McKendrick all over again. 

But before Lewis can think how to put it, Hathaway tilts his head in that appraising way of his, and closes the gap between them. He’s so close, Lewis can feel the heat coming off him; can smell him again. He finds himself leaning back against the wall with Hathaway looming over him. 

“Of course, sir. You’re absolutely right.” 

Hathaway plants his hands on the wall, either side of Lewis’ head, and presses against him. And maybe it’s him who’s slow on the uptake because it’s only when Hathaway ducks down and softly rubs his nose and lips against his right ear that he realises that Hathaway thinks he was giving him an invitation—for debauchery. _Oh fuck_. He has to stop this, he really does. But it’s already too late, because he’s already groaned as Hathaway kissed his neck. His arms have already wound themselves round Hathaway’s waist. His hands are already stroking Hathaway’s back. And his mouth has already found Hathaway’s mouth and they’re kissing. It’s way, way too late.

Everything feels strange and new; having to tilt his head up to kiss Hathaway; feeling surrounded by him, crowded against the wall by him. But he can’t get enough of it—it’s shocking how much he wants this. He pulls Hathaway even tighter against him—which makes the bloke groan softly into his mouth. But then Hathaway pulls away from the kiss, just far enough that they can look at each other. Both are breathing heavily. Hathaway’s looking at him with an expression of pure want, but he obviously thinks he should give Lewis the opportunity to stop; to say no. 

Lewis takes in Hathaway’s messy hair and smudged make-up; the bloke looks like he’s just crawled out of bed after a wild night. A _debauched_ night. And that realisation triggers a flash of an image; Hathaway’s pale, naked chest glistening with sweat in the dark as he lowers himself down onto Lewis’ prick and rides him. _Oh fuck_. What would that feel like? How hot, how tight would . . . God that’s indecent, but he can’t help himself—he’s getting a hard-on just thinking about it. Then he realises that Hathaway has gone very still; just watching him, and waiting. Lewis meets his gaze.

“James.” But no other words come. He knows what he _should_ say—he should say _I can’t do this. I want to but I can’t because I’m your governor._ But it’s so painful to say it when all he really wants is for Hathaway to pin him to the wall again and kiss him so fucking hard it hurts. He feels fully alive for the first time in years; utterly, scarily, ravenously alive, like a wild animal finally woken up from hibernation, starving and desperate. He tries again, a bit breathless.

“James. God. I’m your governor. I shouldn’t . . .”

Hathaway shakes his head emphatically and interrupts him.

“Don’t care about that. That’s got nothing to do with this,” and he glances down to where they’re still clutching each other across the short gap between them. “You know that.” He looks back up at Lewis’ face. “Do you _want_ this?”

 _Like my life depends on it_. “I shouldn’t, I can’t, I . . .” 

Hathaway tightens his grip on Lewis’ arms, almost shaking him. “Not what I asked. Do you _want_ this?”

And suddenly it’s all over—he can’t hold out any longer. “Yeah.” It’s no more than a rough whisper, a wisp of warm breath in the cold night air.

Hathaway makes a strange, pained little sound at the back of his throat and slumps against him, resting his forehead against Lewis’. 

“James? What about you? What do you want?”

Hathaway stays pressed against him, forehead to forehead, and speaks with a kind of quiet urgency.

“I want everything.” 

Lewis’ heart lurches. “Everything?”

“Everything. Every debauched, filthy thing you can think of, I’ve thought about it with you, I want with you. “I want to tie you up and tease you and not let you come till you’re begging and shouting so much I have to gag you so the neighbours won’t worry. I want to drop to my knees and have you unzip yourself and push into my mouth and fuck me like that till you come down my throat. I want you to do it while you’re in your work suit, while you’re dependable, professional DI Lewis. I want you to fuck me so slowly and gently for so long that I pass out from the pleasure of it.” Then he presses his lips against Lewis’ ear, as if what’s coming next is the real secret. “I want to cuddle you when we watch telly, and I want you to hold my hand when there’s no one around. I want to sleep next to you and wake up next to you, and make you laugh and piss you off, and know you’re there, next to me.” He pauses. “Everything.”

How do you explain that your whole being has become a _yes_? How do you explain that your only reason for continuing to breathe right now is to live this _yes_? The only other time in his life he’s felt like this was when he met Val for the first time and she asked him to dance. He’d spotted her across the hall as she wove her way through the dancers towards him. By the time she was standing in front of him he knew he was radiating _want_ and _need_ and _yes_ , and he didn’t care who saw it. 

His forehead is still pressed against Hathaway’s. He nods against him.

“Everything. _Yes_.”


End file.
